Despair to Determination
by Eva Galana
Summary: For Sten, assisting the Hero of Ferelden was more than finding the answer to the Arishok's question. A Cheeky Monkey Secret Santa gift to roxfox1962.
1. Chapter 1

_Despair to Determination_

The huge greatsword swept through the air, catching the hurlock in the gut, cleaving through the tough leather it wore as armor and slicing into the corrupted flesh beneath. Black, poison blood spilled from the wound as the huge warrior twisted his blade, pushing forward with his shoulder, opening the stomach of the darkspawn warrior, spilling entrails, bile and blood upon the ground. With a great shout, the warrior of the Beresaad stepped back, pulling his greatsword, _Asala_, with him and then raising the two handed blade over his head, chopping down with tremendous strength to cleave the beast shoulder to sternum.

Sten spun about, ignoring the spurting blood behind him, bloodlust shining clearly in his lavender eyes as he focused upon the battling form of The Warden, his own swords – long and short – darting out in a scissoring movement to saw the head from the genlock archer harrying the companions.

Snorting with respect and approval, the Qunari warrior shouldered his blade, turning a circuit to survey the battlefield.

None of those who opposed them now stood, Alistair having dispatched the last of their darkspawn aggressors with a strength the foreign warrior greatly approved.

Wynne hurried over to The Warden, _tutting_ at him in that maternal manner of hers. The Qunari shook his head, stalking over toward the pair as the other warden surveyed their surroundings before moving to his brother warden's side. The Qunari warrior allowed the reprimand to die upon his lips as he watched the wry grin spread across The Warden's face as the mage continued to berate him his foolish rush into the fray.

Sten watched as the elf then turned his head, away from the wound on his arm, away from the healer, the grin dying into a grimace of pain. He could hear the old woman whispering encouraging words to the young man, and he watched as the elf's blue eyes clouded as his gaze swept the body strewn ground around them and then shifted to the top of Fort Drakon, their current destination.

Ever since the wild witch had left their company – just prior to their march upon Denerim – The Warden had been quieter, more stoic and decisive in his duties, with none of the playful banter he had possessed during their quest to end the Blight. The Qunari had always felt that the elf's…relationship with the wild mage had been a distraction; one that, with every other demand placed upon the young elf's shoulders, The Warden had little need of. How well he had approved, even while considering her words at the time intrusive, the advice the elderly mage had given to the less experienced young man.

And while Sten found the distraction of the witch disruptive to the progression of their fight against the Blight, he readily admitted to being…_confused_ by her absence just prior to the battle. After all, she had traveled with The Warden from the beginning, knowing full well the danger of a Blight left unattended to. If nothing else, the warrior had thought that the witch had wished to be a part of ridding the land of the Blight as surely as the others of their company.

The fact the acidic tongued witch also shared The Warden's bed seemed to indicate she would ever be at his side.

Apparently, he had been mistaken in his assumptions. His duty…his loyalty to The Warden – his _Kadan_ – would dictate that, should he ever meet the witch again, he should cleave her head from her shoulders. The desertion of their mutual quest was an unforgiveable crime, one deserving of the most painful of deaths.

However, his _Kadan_ would never approve, and thus Sten made a silent, solemn vow to seek out the swamp witch and make her answer for her deceit.

The Warden turned his head to speak quietly to the elderly mage, who gave him a sharp look, tugged at the bandage upon his bicep, but, after another moment's contemplation of the young man, nodded, stepping back as she once again grasped her gnarled wood staff in her still smooth hands.

Turning, The Warden's blue eyes – holding a firm resolve Sten had seen in them many times prior to battles – held his own gaze for a moment. Exchanging nods, The Warden turned to Alistair, clapping his brother warden upon one heavily armored shoulder before leading them through the decimated courtyard, and passed the body of the senior warden, Riordan.

Blood practically poured down the combatants' forms, weary and bent from battle. At their feet lay a dead Ogre, while behind three Hurlock emissaries lay in pools of their own blood and bile. The stench of death permeated the entire chamber; the entire keep. Before them stood the massive staircase that led up to the roof.

Bent over, hands upon his knees, The Warden gasped for breath, spitting out blood – his and darkspawn – as he tried to gather himself. Stepping around the corner of the table, Sten could see the shaking of the elf's hands as he raised one, clasping his short sword, to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Fear was not something to be ignored nor denigrated. Even among the Qunari it was greatly recognized that fear could make one wary, more cautious, more effective in battle. Fear reigned in the impetuous hand, counting each step to where the enemy stood to make a more effective and clean kill.

The fear in The Warden was not unexpected, and Sten had seen if oft enough to understand that the elven warden was more than aware of the consequences to unchecked fear, resulting in terror.

There was a shake of The Wardens dark head and those blue eyes rose to take in the beleaguered forms of his companions. "Only one more set of stairs to go," he said, his voice affecting a cheerfulness he obviously did not feel. Even Sten could sense the forced quality behind his tired tones.

Alistair rewarded his brother warden with a weak smirk, while Wynne merely shook her white head. Sten, never quite understanding The Warden's need for humor, merely stepped to the bottom of the stairwell, his lavender eyes scanning up the many steps leading to a great set of double doors, to await the others.

"Off we go," The Warden quipped, straightening and giving both blades a twist before stepping to Sten's side. Clasping the giant warrior on one shoulder, The Warden gave his friend a grin, and then led the group up the steps.

"No!" Alistair shouted into the face of his friend, glaring down at him from his height advantage. The elven warden merely smiled up from a face little more than a bloodied mask, into the raging face of his human friend, obviously not intimated in the least.

"Listen Alistair," The Warden said calmly, placing his hands at each of the warrior's shoulders. "It has to be this way…"

"No, D…" Alistair began, only to be cut off by the elf.

"Why bother not making you the king if you can't enjoy being a warden?" the elf quipped, a smile upon his face but lacking in the tone of his voice.

"Da…" The human tried again, but stopped as the elf merely shook his head.

"Look, you have everything to live for," the elven warden said, looking over to where Sten stood, waiting in his stoic silence. Dark head nodded in a near unperceivable tilt. "Being a Grey Warden is what you've always wanted. Me?"

"Don't say it…" There was steel in Alistair's voice, and the elf blinked momentarily, that sad smile still upon his face.

"I have nothing to live for, Ali. My family's been sold off to Tevinter, the woman I lo…" here the elf's calm façade broke, his voice and face crumpling momentarily, and as the battle raged around them, the two wardens stood in silence, the elf with his head bowed, the human staring at the crown of his friend's head.

Collecting himself, the elf looked back up into his friend's face. "You will be everything that Ferelden needs in a Warden Commander." His voice was very soft, but still had that commanding, knowing quality to it. The one that Alistair both loved to hear and hated at the same time.

"You keep forgetting about the losing the pants thing," Alistair quipped, a sad smile upon his handsome blood-and-grime smeared face to match his brother warden's.

"Best way to get recruits, Ali," the elf joked, his smile widening as a blush formed beneath the dirt upon Alistair's face. "Take those pants off, and you'll have recruits fallin' all over themselves to enlist." The elf paused as his heavy Denerim slums accent started to invade his careful speech, giving away his own nervousness despite his seeming calm.

"Da…"

Shaking his head, bowed somewhat to avoid Alistair's eyes, the elf muttered, "Sorry Ali," before delivering a sharp, sudden punch to the warrior's jaw.

Stumbling back, stunned by the sudden onslaught from his friend, Alistair could do little more than raise his hands. They afforded him no protection from the elf's next assault, a roundhouse kick to the gut, which doubled the other warden over.

"Sten!" the elf shouted. In one smooth surge forward, the giant warrior was behind the gasping human, his powerful arms wrapping about Alistair's chest, pulling the other man, still gasping, straight as he locked his thick, powerful fingers together, in anticipation for when the physically powerful human would regain himself.

Fists still clenched, The Warden gazed sadly at his friend. "You are what Ferelden needs and wants," he said quickly to his friend as he pulled a second longsword, this one having once been wielded by Duncan, free of its scabbard. "You _are_ legendary, Alistair, no matter what anyone else would say of you." He offered a sad smile to his friend's glare as Alistair continued to struggle for breath. "The bastard son of King Maric, raised from the ashes of his Order, to free Ferelden from the Blight." The elf tilted his head, watching as Alistair straightened, pulling against the restraints of the Qunari grip. "_Glorious_!"

"Don't you dare elf!" Alistair growled, his voice taut with anger and fear.

"What am I?" the elven warden continued as he stepped forward, placing a strong, long fingered hand against Alistair's heaving chest. "Just an elf." He shook his dark head sadly, head tipped somewhat to momentarily avoid Alistair's condemning eyes. "No one in their right mind would want me in any position of power. No one would follow me." That smile widened, finally reaching his eyes, and Alistair felt his heart break. "But you, my friend, they will follow to the Deep Roads and beyond." Here he grinned widely, "Especially is you doff the pants!"

Then, he stepped back, tipping two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute, ignoring completely the continued protests that spilled from Alistair's lips, and then turned about, sprinting off toward the Archdemon.

Struggling, cursing, Alistair fought to break free of Sten's hold. The pair tipped slightly, and the Qunari dug his heels in, bracing his back to pull Alistair back, keeping him in place. The din of battle rose, the screams of the Archdemon rising about the clatter as it spied the oncoming Warden.

Crying out his friend's name, Alistair could only watch, helplessly, still struggling against the iron hold of the Warrior of the Qun, as the elf skidded to his knees, slashing his sword – _Duncan's_ sword - upwards as he slid beneath the enormous bulk of the blighted Old God, slicing deeply into its underbelly, dark corrupted blood pouring over the elf's lithe form. His struggles renewed in earnest as the elven warden rose behind the creature, Duncan's longsword raised above his head, and then, with one shout of triumph, brought the sharp blade – crafted specifically for a Grey Warden - tip down, driving it powerfully through the thick skull of the Archdemon.

Bright light exploded, encompassing the combatants surrounding the pair – the Grey Warden and the Archdemon. Darkspawn and defenders alike were tossed about like drag dolls. Sten's hold upon Alistair loosened and, taking advantage, Alistair elbowed the Qunari away, racing, arms pumping, to where his friend had been tossed like a rag doll, laying several yards from the now still form of the Archdemon.

_What is the Blight?_

Sten stood, taking stoic solace in the nearness of his _Kadan_ as he stood vigil at the elf's side. To the other side of the stone slab stood the Other Warden, now The Warden. Alistair. The Qunari snorted slightly, frowning at his own disruption of the silence. The Other Warden merely glanced over at the other warrior, a frown forming upon his face, once more to crumple at the intense sorrow that had overcome the human at the death of his friend.

He turned his attention away from the living human, focused again upon the still form of the elven Warden lying in state upon the cold stone. Eyes turned to the body, thoughts turned elsewhere.

_What is the Blight?_

A question that had brought Sten and his brethren to the shores of Ferelden more than a year prior. An answer to a question asked of the Arishok, and demanded an answer through the arm of the Beresaad.

It had seemed such a simple thing, find the answer and return _home_.

Sten was not so certain any longer.

The Blight, in simplest terms, was a queller of life, a destructive power upon which only one other power – the Grey Wardens – could defeat. Why only the Grey Wardens could defeat such a black tide of destruction…only those within the mysterious Order knew. Even after a year of traveling with two junior Wardens, the warrior of the Qunari still had no answer to that question.

Not that he should. After all, the Arishok did not request any of the legendary Order's secrets, merely a simple supposition as to what the Blight was.

But, after a year in the company of The Warden, Sten had learned a great deal more about the Blight than would be simple.

The Blight was a black tide of despair and destruction, one that sapped the inner strength of body, earth, stone and sky. Nothing could survive nor grow nor prosper once a Blight had tainted it, and history tells that in areas hardest hit – such as in the Anderfels – it would be centuries before even the slightest of fungus would grow once more.

The Blight was much more, however.

Bringer of despair, certainly. One that the mere mention of its name could squelch the heart of the most stalwart of warriors, pull the hope from the breast of the most devote of Mothers. One thing Sten had learned during his travels along the Fereldan highways and cities, Deep Roads and untamed forests was this: Despair can only last for so long, before determination reared up. Whether determination to simply die on one's feet or push back with the hope of survival…it did not matter. Sten had watched, from the time he had first opened his eyes in the strange farmhouse to that moment, standing beside the man he had fought beside for many months, as despair gave way to determination.

Determination to strength.

No matter what the morrow may bring, he had his answer for his Arishok. Whether it was the one his leader had sought…only the Arishok would know. For Sten had fulfilled his duty, completed his mission. Lavender eyes skimmed down to the two handed sword he held, naked, in his hand. With his soul intact.

Those same eyes drifted once more to the calm features of the corpse beside him. The body of the man he called _Kadan_. Silently, he raised his sword, giving the man one final salute, ignoring the watchful eyes of the young warden beside him. Calm and purpose once more filling the giant's large heart.

For he knew he could return home, after having faced countless battles, asked many questions, answered numerous more. He had his answer for the question of the Blight.

And he wondered no more whether it was the answer his Arishok wished. For it was the only answer there was to be.


	2. Debt of Honor

_My thanks to all who have favorited, alerted and reviewed this story: roxfox1962, Lady Cailan, and Wyl._

_Despair to Determination_

_Chapter 2: Debt of Honor_

It had been more than two years...how time can speed away into history. Sten frowned into the wilderness, glaring at the body of the dragon he had managed to kill. True, it had been a very small dragon, the Orlesian Warden just a day ahead of him having managed to kill the more dangerous of the breed. There had been a simple exhilaration to the battle, in the kill, and the Qunari warrior could not help but relish in the death of a worthy foe.

The prey he sought, however, the same one sought by the foreign Grey Warden, would not be treated with as much honor as he currently gave to the dead dragon at his feet.

He had wondered, when first he had picked up the trail of the Orlesian that had been given command of the Ferelden based Grey Wardens. Confused, even. Had Alistair not been given command? He had, after all, refused the throne, helped along with that decision by The Warden. Where the young whelp was, Sten had no clue. Every one of his former traveling companions had gone their own ways, and the Qunari had not the time nor inclination to discover the young Theirrin's whereabouts.

Perhaps once done with this self-imposed mission, the Qunari may take the roundabout trail back to Seheron, and perhaps discover the locality of the missing Warden.

After all, the former Templar had been someone of import to his _Kadan_. It would only behoove the promise such a commitment to another would extoll.

For now…he glanced up into the gray skies that hovered over the desolate grounds of the Dragonbone Waste. The skeletal remains of ancient dragons littered the white sand and stone. The Qunari knew well the value of the bones lying unclaimed upon the ground. Even among those who spoke the Qun they were invaluable as armor and weapons. Perhaps he would give the locale of the veritable gold mine to a weapon smith he knew back in Denerim. A low chuckle escaped his lips as the giant warrior considered the genius of the rather flamboyant Wade.

Softly, he scolded himself, becoming lost in memories and dwelling upon monetary gains. Truly, he had been contaminated during his year-long travels with the Hero of Ferelden.

Gripping _Asala_ tightly in his hand, the giant warrior bowed once more to the carcass and resumed his trailing of the Grey Warden and his companions.

0O0

The screech of metal against metal rose into the air, rising above the last two combatants. Eye to eye, toe to toe, the pair glared at each other on nearly equal height. Pressing his strength into _Asala_, Sten heaved forward, his left foot leading, as he shoved his foe backwards one stumbling step then side stepped away as the cultist's greatsword – crafted of gleaming white dragonbone – swept through the air, just barely missing the qunari's shoulder.

Blood practically covered both combatants, much of it their own. The cultist's dark eyes narrowed as he quickstepped to the side, dodging a heavy swing from the larger qunari's blade.

Sten felt impatience rise up within his breast, and he quickly calmed the killing urge, recognizing his foe as being one of skill and strength. Both were barely breathing heavily, despite the exhaustive battle they had been waging.

As the pair circled one another, Sten frowned, his attention focused upon the battle even as his mind pondered the presence of a dragon cult. Most who worshiped dragons were stationed within such nations as Tevinter or Nevarra. It had been almost astonishing finding the one cult located in the tiny hamlet of Haven; finding this second caused some concern to the Qunari.

Not that it had any relevance to his current, self-imposed mission. He merely filed this bit of information away, his curiosity driving him to seek an answer to this second conundrum.

Lavender eyes narrowed and he braced himself, prepared for the sudden rush from his foe.

Blades ground against one another, red steel to dragonbone. Massive bodies collided, and Sten braced his footing, straining against his opponent as he was pushed back, his feet leaving furrows in the dusty ground as he was pushed back several inches. With a growl, the massive warrior of the Qun gave a great shove, pushing his foe backwards, stumbling, the cultist's blade slashing out to keep the qunari's blade at bay. With a great shout, Sten raced forward, twisting his upper body slightly to shoulder into the cultist. The force of the blow brought the cultist's feet from beneath him, and he landed, with a great thud and the air whooshing from his lungs, onto his back in the dusty, blood covered ground.

With another growl, Sten drove his great blade down, point driven first, into the cultist's unprotected chest. The great blade sliced through the drakeskin armor chestpiece, into the flesh and cutting through bone to the heart beneath. With a great shudder, the cultist's head flopped to the ground as his body lurched once, back arching, before slumping lifelessly to the ground.

Grunting, Sten yanked his blade free of the corpse, and, without a word or second glance, jogged away, finding once more the trail of his quarry.

0O0

The sounds of battle resounded through the air, and Sten quickened his pace, a look of concentration upon his strong features as an unfamiliar screeching roar rose into the air. Topping the incline, the Qunari warrior gazed down upon the battlefield.

The Orlesian warden – a tall man with dark features and darker hair – faced off to a creature the Qunari had never seen nor heard of before. A mass of five, spearlike legs erupted from an elongated, hunched body, from which protruded two spindly arm-like appendages. Another screech exploded into the air, and the warden ducked, twisting away, his long sword and dagger tucked in as he rolled away from one attack.

A Dalish warrior gave a great shout, distracting the beast from the warden. Turning, its sharp legs clacking along the stony ground, twisted to face off against the warrior.

Several yards away, a young human mage cast spells, seeking to slow the beast and give aid to his companions.

It was obvious to the Qunari that all were severely wounded, and he doubted he would make it down the steep incline in time to offer any assistance.

However, it would not stop his trying. Taking a deep breath, Asala held tightly in one hand, the warrior dashed off toward the battle just as one spiked leg pierced downward, impaling the Dalish warrior in an eruption of blood, pinning her to the ground as blood pooled around her prone form. A great shriek of agony exploded from her lungs as the warden rushed toward her, blades slashing as he attempted to gain the creature's attention.

"Finn!" Sten could hear the human warden shout out, apparently to the mage. "Ariane is down!"

"Got it!" the mage shouted back, brow furrowing in concentration as he sent a spell at the fallen elf.

Even from his distance, Sten could see that the elf was dead. Any actions by the mage would be fruitless.

Breath saved for running, to offer his assistance to the warden, Sten did not call out his opinion on the matter, although he mentally berated the mage for wasting time on a corpse.

The thing was weakening, Sten could see. The blades of the warden had damaged it greatly and he took note that two of the five legs supporting its bulk were broken, barely able to hold up the off balanced weight of the creature. The mage – Finn – had obviously seen the futility of offering aid to the elf and had turned his attacks upon the beast, spells of ice and flame, lightening and energy erupting from outstretched fingers to crackle and blast along the body of the beast.

Sten neared the trio, taking note that the warden now limped, his movements less fluid and more erratic. The mage had moved closer, slipping along the spittle cast out from the creature's wide mouth. Movements slowed and the mage gasped to breathe in the poisoned air.

The mage fell, slipping on the excrement of the beast. Sten neared, standing over the young man, blade raised as he gave out a challenge to the creature. Legs clicking as it side stepped around, the creature turned its attention away from the faltering human rogue to concentrate upon the larger foe.

The human rogue was weary, tiring quickly. A glance behind told the Qunari that the mage had fallen, but he did not know if the man continued to draw breath. Dismissing the fallen mage, Sten turned back to the immense form of the creature before him.

"That's a varterral," the warden gasped out in a thick Orlesian accent as he slunk to the warrior's side. Sten could see the damage the human had taken: it was obvious several fingers had been broken, an ankle had taken a turn and there was heavy bruising upon the man's delicate seeming face. The man was obviously an elf-blooded human, and Sten knew certain disquiet as he realized the human warden bore a strong resemblance to The Warden.

"Regardless its designation," Sten said in a heavy voice, bracing himself as the varterral shuffled around, taking aim at the pair, "it must die."

Nodding, the rogue slipped away, dashing toward the rear of the creature as his new ally raised his greatsword to meet the beast head on.

The battle was brutal, Sten finding himself knocked about quite often. The way the varterral stepped upon and knocked aside the mage it was obvious he, too, was dead. Ducking beneath its shorter set of front appendages, the Qunari warrior stepped directly beneath the beast, slashing upwards into the hard exoskeleton caprice of the varterral. Metal screeched angrily along the hard surface, finding weakened spots to drive into the soft flesh beneath. Satisfied, the huge warrior concentrated his attacks to the weak spots, ignoring the death cry that arose from the warden's throat as one of the varterral's remaining legs crashed down upon the human's soft form, pinning him to the ground beneath.

Blood covered and weary, the Qunari found himself pinned beneath the heavy form of the creature. Taking a deep breath, he calmly pulled himself free, rising to gaze around at the dead: the varterral, elf, human mage and human warden lay close.

Digging through his pouch, Sten pulled free a flask of healing potion, quickly gulping the bitter fluid. Closing his eyes, he raised his face to the sky, aware of the itching feel as his wounds knit together. With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes, and turned to the structure the varterral had been guarding.

0O0

The structure proved to be little more than a cave. Cool air wafted around the stone, drifting around the huge body of the Qunari. Sten's lavender eyes narrowed slightly as he gripped his greatsword easily in one hand, striding forward toward the figure he spied milling around a mirror-like object.

It was her. The witch. The betrayer of the Warden, his _Kadan_. The search of the past years finally came to fruition, and one way or another, his duty to his _Kadan_ would be completed.

She spotted him; he made no effort to conceal his movements toward her. Yellow predator eyes narrowed and a nasty smirk crossed her fine features. Her dark hair was pulled back, but not in the familiar bun she had worn throughout their travels during the Blight, but in a simple tail hanging down her back.

As he neared, he took note of other changes to the woman's appearance as well. Her face, while still lovely, was more careworn, a deep sorrow tingeing those strange eyes of her. The lines of her face even spoke of sorrow; instead of the familiar sneer, only a frown turned down the corners of her generous mouth.

And so she stood, watching his approach, until he stood mere feet from her position before the elaborate mirror.

Tilting her head, her brow furrowed, Morrigan spoke. "Why are you here, Qunari?"

Sten stood for a moment, studying the woman before him, pulling up the old feeling of betrayal and anger that had flooded his heart as he had stood, those years before, beside the body of his _Kadan_ as he lay in state upon the cold stone. It was there, that desire to honor the man that had given everything to ending the Blight.

Often, Sten had wondered if the death would have been needed had the witch merely remained by his side.

"A matter of honor still needs to be answered," he answered cryptically, eyes narrowed as the witch turned fully to look at him.

"Honor?" Morrigan's eyes narrowed and she took a cautious step back, fully aware of the qunari's dislike and distrust of her.

Nodding, the warrior took a step closer, sword still held carefully in his hand, raised to hip level as he advanced. "The honor of my _Kadan_ demands certain actions be taken in his name. Those who betrayed him during his quest to defeat the Blight must be dealt with."

He raised his blade. Morrigan's eyes glittered maliciously at the huge warrior. "I never betrayed him!" she sneered, raising her hands to call forth a spell.

"Just days before the final battle, you abandoned him, abandoned the mission we had all partaken of," the Qunari intoned as he stepped closer, circling to the witch's side, causing her to move away from the cloudy mirror behind her. "Had he your strength, he may well have survived the final encounter with the Archdemon."

He spoke with careful calmness, as he always did. However, the witch before him could sense it, hear the undertones of pain and betrayal in the qunari's calm, deep tones. Shaking her dark head, she paused, trying to stare down the armed warrior. "You are wrong, Sten," her voice was quiet, pained as she spoke, and he paused, staring at her. "There was no other route for him to take other than death."

"You say that only to save your own miserable life, bas saarebas," there was a hint of hatred in the qunari's voice, and Morrigan found herself quelling at the sound.

"'Tis true, Sten," how she managed to remain calm, the witch was uncertain. She knew well the qunari's strength at arms, how quickly he could move, how devastating his strikes. "A warden must die to kill the Archdemon." She bowed her head. "I had a way, a means for no one to die," here her voice caught, "so he would not die." Her head rose, eyes meeting those of the warrior, "He refused. I could not bear to watch him die…"

"So you chose the coward's path and ran," the Qunari spat in disgust, his blade rising, both hands clenching around the hilt. "Still you chose to dishonor his decisions!"

"I loved him!" she hissed, more afraid of dying by the qunari's blade than in admitting such a weak emotion. "I could not…"

"Those who truly cared for The Warden remained," Sten interrupted her, moving and circling, well aware of the sneaky nature of the apostate's brand of magic. "Even the Other remained by his side to the end."

Morrigan scoffed. "Alistair would have jumped off a cliff had _he_ told him to!"

But Sten merely nodded. "Because he honored The Warden," he advised, raising his blade. Morrigan stepped back, pulling in her power, her hands glowing slightly from the inrush of power. "He knew when to follow an order, to keep to the role for which he was assigned."

Power flared from the mage's hands, catching the Qunari in the chest, hurtling him backwards to the ground. Grunting, he pushed himself up, his hands tight around the hilt of his blade. With a growl, the huge warrior lunged forward, easily side stepping another casting of spirit energy, his blade swishing outwards toward the mage.

Panic rose within the breast of the apostate, and Morrigan made her way toward the mirror. The cloudy surface still swirled with power, the incantations she had uttered before Sten's arrival still in place, still holding the gateway open for her to pass within. She merely needed to reach the mirror before Sten's blade found her…

Too late, she realized she had no time to reach the mirror. Turning, she flashed out a river of ice, halting the Qunari in his tracks. Rage filled the warrior's eyes, and Morrigan knew true fear – fear she only felt in the presence of her mother. Fear turned to terror as Sten flexed his muscles, cracking and finally breaking the ice that surrounded him, freeing his heavy body from the ice. She turned, rushing to the mirror, the Warrior of the Qun fast upon her heels.

Reaching the mirror, she turned, just as the blade swept outwards, an explosion of blood greeting the blow. Panting, Sten straightened as the body of the witch fell backwards, into the mirror, to shimmer, vanishing from sight. Scowling, he watched as the swirling depths of the mirror calmed, clearing, to reflect the surrounding cave back at him.

Eyes dipped down, gazing at the blood spattered floor, trailing the sprinkles of blood as they lengthened and widened, deeper and redder with blood. Those eyes rested upon an object that lay many feet from the mirror.

The head of the witch.

With a satisfied nod, the warrior sheathed his blade, and turned to stalk from the place.

Fully unaware of the pair of malevolent yellow eyes that watched his progress.


	3. As to Some Questions

_My thanks to Wyl and roxfox1962 for taking the time to read and review!_

_Despair to Determination_

_Chapter 3: As to Some Questions…_

The tavern was filthy, the air heavy and smoke filled, the stench of unwashed bodies and too much alcohol and vomit adding to the stench. A perfect dive, the Qunari recalled the Antivan Assassin having referred to one similar place during their travels those years before.

The rumble of chatter, guffaws and drunken revelry added its own pollution to the stench filled air, and Sten wrinkled his nose without thought, trying to keep the pervasive odor from permeating his very being. Lavender eyes scanned over the sea of bent heads and crooked arms, finally resting upon the figure he had been searching for.

Carefully, the large man pushed his way through the crowded floor, pushing against chairs, not acknowledging the catcalls that were tossed in his direction as he pushed his way through the bodies. Most of the calls faltered when they spied the sheer size of the man and the grim determination painted upon his rugged features, the callers shifting in their seats to refocus their energies upon their drinking.

Finally, he stopped, standing over the table, glaring over the shoulders of the three men who sat in companionable silence. All eyes turned to him, but only one pair – honey gold, with laugh crinkles at the corners – lit up with recognition.

"Sten!" Alistair shouted, jumping out of his chair to soundly pat the larger man upon the shoulders. The Qunari warrior stepped back as did the Grey Warden, each taking in the changed appearance of the other.

To Sten, Alistair appeared much as he had seven years prior. His golden eyes lit up with joy at the sight of a familiar face, and his red-gold hair was still shorn close. Laugh lines were more firmly defined upon his strong face, but now there were more scars and a few frown lines mingled therein as well. Dressed in heavy plate bearing the traditional rearing griffon heraldry, Alistair stood tall and proud, the perfect picture of what a Grey Warden should be.

If only he still did not sport that ridiculous grin, and the image would be as it should.

To Alistair's eyes, the only change in Sten's appearance was the two scars that crossed his left cheek. Otherwise, the man appeared much as he had those years prior. Tall, formidably muscled, white hair braided down his back, and cold, strange colored eyes that seemed to stare right through your armor and flesh to the very heart.

Yes, he still caused the Warden to shudder even after all these years and after all the battles he had seen since the Blight ended.

Sten allowed a faint shimmer of amusement to flicker in his eyes as he studied the Warden before slipping back to cool indifference.

The two other men at the table – both dressed in the silver and blue colors of the Order, one of leather the other of plate similar to that worn by Alistair – glanced at one another and then back to the two standing men. Grinning at the Qunari, Alistair motioned to a nearby chair, inviting the warrior to join them. With a glance to the other men – who were watching with great interest – the Qunari settled his huge bulk into the chair. Shifting, the chair creaked in protest as his bulk settled and the three Wardens exchanged amused grins as Alistair settled back into his seat.

"Well, Sten," Alistair quipped, raising his mug to take a sip of the weak ale. "I'd offer you a drink, but if I recall correctly, Qunari do not imbibe of alcohol."

"Your recollection is accurate, Warden," Sten replied in his rumbling voice.

"What brings you here, Sten?" Alistair asked, peering at his former companion over the brim of his mug.

Eyes flickering to the other two men, Sten sat stoically silent. Smirking, Alistair set his mug down, waving a hand at each man to introduce them.

"This fine fellow," he waved toward a tall, slender man with dark hair pulled back from his face and sporting a hawkish nose. Sten turned to stare at the man, his brow crinkling slightly. "is Nathaniel Howe, Senior Grey Warden of Ferelden."

Turning to look at Alistair, a white brow quirked upwards in a gesture so reminiscent of Darrian that Alistair felt a tightness in his throat, Sten asked, "Howe?"

"Yup," Alistair responded, swallowing passed the lump in his throat at the thought of his long deceased friend. "Son of Arl Rendon Howe. Good man," here Alistair chuckled as Nathaniel glared at the man, "ah, Nathaniel I mean. Not Rendon. He was a bad, bad man." Nathaniel scoffed out a low chuckle, smirking into his mug.

"Nicely caught, Commander," Howe remarked as he took a sip of his ale, a slight shake of his head causing one of the braids at the front of his head to sway slightly.

With a roll of his eyes, Alistair then gestured to the other man, who raised his mug to the Qunari before taking a sip. His dark eyes followed Sten's movements, matching his stare boldly with his own. "This one is Stroud, Commander of the Grey in the Free Marches."

"Greetings," the Free Marches Warden replied in a voice thick with an Orlesian accent. "I have heard much of you from my friend here."

"Ah, all good, really," Alistair quickly defended himself, smirking over at his Warden companions, watching from the corner of his eye as Sten merely shook his head.

"May we speak privately?" Sten asked after another moment passed. Gold eyes went first to the grays of Howe and then to Stroud. Both men nodded, Stroud motioning to the curtained off rooms to the back. Nodding, Alistair rose, leaving his mug on the table, and gestured for the warrior to follow him.

The room Alistair led them into was dim, made dimmer by the curtain covering the entry way. A single callow candle sat upon the small round table, three chairs settled around it. The Grey Warden gestured to one of the chairs, and then settled into one himself, waiting with a patience the Qunari would not have believed the former prince of Ferelden could possess.

"First, understand, that I was not seeking you out," Sten replied after a moment of silence had passed. He ignored the smirk that crossed the Grey Warden's face. "I was traveling…"

"Seeking more answers?" Alistair interrupted with a quirk of his brow.

This time the Qunari allowed a deep frown upon his face at the Warden's interruption, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Hardly," came the dry response and another moment of silence followed before the Qunari began again. "There has been some…unrest in the Free Marches of late. I was curious and so decided to undertake the journey myself."

"You're allowed to do that?" Alistair could not restrain himself and had to ask.

The qunari's eyes narrowed further. "We of the Qun are not prisoners of our beliefs, Warden," he scolded quietly. "We are encouraged to seek out answers to our own questions."

"Ah, sorry," the Warden responded, trying to infuse his voice with contriteness but failing. It came out as a smirk.

"As I was traveling, I heard word of Grey Wardens being seen in the area. I followed the rumors here…"

"Where I sat in all my Grey Wardeness glory," now Alistair was smirking openly.

Sten stared impassively at the younger man for many moments before letting loose a heavy sigh. "I see that, even after these years as Commander you have not changed."

"That's good, right?" came the insolent response, followed by a heavy pause. "Right?" he insisted.

"Hardly."

"Now that just hurts," the younger man pouted, jutting his lower lip out in an exaggerated manner. "Hurts my manly feelings."

Raising a brow, Sten replied, "All one of them?"

Blinking rapidly, Alistair sat, dumbfounded for a moment before bursting into laughter. "Oh! You remember that!"

Again came that sigh, the sigh that Sten had learned how to issue during his travels with The Warden and his myriad of companions. One he had no cause to practice until this very moment. "I recall quite a few of the…banters you and the others engaged in," the Qunari tilted his head ever so slightly. "I often felt it was a waste of time and breath, although The Warden seemed to encourage it."

"Helped us get through the day, Sten," Alistair said in a very quiet soft voice. "Darrian knew what we needed. Comradery is very important, especially when facing life and death issues on a daily basis."

In a voice equally quiet, Sten answered back, "As I recall."

The pair fell silent, each lost in his own memories of Darrian Tabris, _The_ Warden. The Hero of Ferelden. Their fallen friend. Sten frowned, pushing aside the thoughts and feelings that always accompanied his memories of his Kadan, and focused his attention once more to the man who had picked up the elf's mantle.

"Almost five years ago," Sten started speaking without preamble, and Alistair lifted his eyes to fix upon the qunari's strong face. "I came back to Ferelden. To…honor a debt owed to _Kadan_. I met with the Grey Warden Commander of Ferelden at that time…"

Alistair shook his head, "Caron wasn't the Commander. He was my second."

A white brow quirked. "Your second?"

"Aye. I was called to Weisshaupt shortly after…taking over the arling of Amaranthine and weeding out a terribly thick darkspawn problem. While I was away, Caron was in charge." Alistair's eyes narrowed slightly. "He was killed, in the Dragonbone Waste, during my absence. Nathaniel had to take charge of the arling and Wardens until my return."

"He died battling a varterral," Sten offered.

Nodding, Alistair wiped a hand across his face. "Yeah. We saw the big body next to the three smaller ones." A grimace crossed his face. "Well, what was left of them, that is."

His curiosity struck, Alistair bent forward in his seat. "Why were you there, Sten?"

"I told you," the Qunari replied, just a hint of irritation in his heavy voice. "I was seeing to a matter of honor for The Warden."

"Wouldn't have had anything to do with Morrigan, now, would it?"

_Perceptive_…"Quite possibly."

Nodding, the warden settled back, folding his hands to his stomach. "Thought so. That's what Caron was doing, by the way. Following up on a lead to our favorite marsh witch. The First Warden had received word that Morrigan may have had…information about the Grey Wardens. He wanted to be certain that the information she may have had did not become…known."

"Caron was sent to dispose of her," it was not a question.

But Alistair merely shrugged. "I know the Wardens do whatever is necessary to stop Blights. And that means that they will protect their secrets with prejudice. I don't know what my Second was supposed to be doing," Alistair snarled out this bit, betraying his irritation even years later. "Weisshaupt refused and still refuses to answer my questions about it, and Caron didn't leave any hints behind." Weary, the Commander of the Grey slumped back into his seat. "I have no idea what information Morrigan had, but," he raised his eyes to the Qunari, "whatever it was, she took it with her to her grave."

Sten's lavender eyes met Alistair's calmly, his expression betraying nothing. The Warden tipped his head, rolling his eyes slightly. "I found her," the warden finally said, grimacing in disgust at the memory. "Well, her head, anyway. Don't know what happened to her body."

An image of her body falling back into the mirror flashed through Sten's mind, but his face and eyes betrayed nothing.

Alistair, however, had gained wisdom during his tenure as Warden Commander, and his eyes narrowed shrewdly and he steepled his hands before his face. "It takes a very sharp blade and strong arm to so cleanly severe a head from its body."

Still, silence from the Qunari.

"You killed her."

"She betrayed The Warden."

"_You_ killed _her_."

"She turned her back upon her duty to stop the Blight."

"Sten," Alistair leaned forward. "I'm not going to…try and arrest you or imprison you. I know you killed her."

His next words almost startled a reaction from the Qunari.

"And I personally could not be more grateful."

The only change in Sten's stoic resolve was the slight quirk of an eyebrow. Alistair smirked. "If I could have done it myself, I would have. That you did it, well…it just seemed more poetic that way."

"Why would you say that?" Sten asked, unable to stop himself.

Alistair shrugged. "Darrian was our brother in arms. A brother Warden to me, your…Kadan. Of the two of us, however, you had more…freedom to do the bitch in, as it were, than I did." His eyes closed slightly, a frown formed upon his lips. "Of course, if I knew beforehand that she held Grey Warden secrets, I would have been justified in killing her myself," he shrugged his broad shoulders, "but there you are."

"You hated the witch," Sten replied calmly, his eyes fixed once more upon Alistair's face.

"More than I probably had a right to," the younger man muttered, ducking his head down so that Sten could not see the expression thereon.

Another minute passed, and then Sten gave a slight nod and pushed himself up from his seat. His head jerking upwards, Alistair followed suit, staring at the large warrior.

"We done here already?" the warden quipped, that smirk back upon his face.

Nodding, Sten moved toward the curtain. "I had been curious as to why you were not leading the Wardens. I now have my answer."

Chuckling, Alistair pulled the curtain aside, letting the huge warrior push passed him. "Seems you're always looking for answers."

Turning to look at his former companion, Sten replied, "Life should always be a series of seeking answers, Warden," he watched as a grin crossed Alistair's face.

"Be well, Sten," the Warden remarked as he moved back toward his drinking companions.

"And you as well, Warden," drifted back the qunari's reply as he headed toward the tavern's door.


	4. Arishok's Answer

_Despair to Determination_

_Chapter 4: Arishok's Answer_

Lavender eyes narrowed, the tall figure barely flinching as canons released their burning burdens upon the docks. The denizens of the city were fighting valiantly, felling many of the warriors of the Qun, as the warlord knew well they would. As he had explained to the Arishok those many years before.

And yet, he stood, upon the proud deck of his dreadnought, launching into a war with the capitol city of Ferelden, eyes watching, wary, keenly anticipating when his own vessel would unburden itself of its warrior arm to delve deeply into the city, to take control of the country's heart and soul.

Eyes skimmed over the view, focusing to a point where he knew, so much further into the depths of the city, stood the towering monument to a man – an _elf_ – whom he had greatly respected, admired even – one who had fought hard and cared deeply, whose heart had firmly been fixed onto not only winning a seemingly unwinnable war but never at any cost. A faint smirk settled upon the thin lips of the Arishok, crinkling an already worn and ragged face at the memory of that adventure so long ago.

A great war cry resounded from the docks, and those lavender eyes turned to the area closer, fixing upon the battling form of an armored man. Heavy brows furrowed as the war cry rose up again and he paused, wondering why the Grey Wardens deigned to fight in this battle.

He watched as several Qunari warriors fell to the man's blade, smashed down to the blood soaked ground by the griffon emblazoned shield used so skillfully as both a weapon and barrier. No longer surrounded by foes, the man raised a hand to peel the helm from his head, revealing a glory of shoulder length white hair. Turning, his eyes fixed upon the dreadnaught of the invading armies' leader, and, even at that distance, the Arishok could see the glimmer within those golden orbs.

Honestly, he had not considered that he would meet this one again. Had contented himself with that thought. He was Qunari, but his time with The Warden those twenty and more years before had changed him. No longer Sten, he was now Arishok, a leader within the military hierarchy of those who followed the Qun. He had to set aside friendships and personal desires to see to it that the Qun was brought to those who continued to dwell in ignorance.

Again, the knowledge he had been changed was there; the current leadership of the Ariqun had determined that the former Sten's time within the lands of Ferelden would benefit the invading forces, and thus he had been given this command. And he had accepted – eventually - certain that none of those he had traveled with those years prior would still be within the borders of the still barbaric lands of Ferelden. Even the knowledge that The Warden's family no longer resided within the Alienage of Denerim had eased any guilt the warrior may have felt.

And so, the see – to know – that one of this former companions – the best friend of The Warden, no less – stood just yards from him, winged helm tossed to the ground behind him as he raised his blade in greeting to the Arishok caused a slight clenching within his chest.

Alistair, Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, yet lived, and had commanded his Wardens to battle on behalf of Ferelden, not against an Archdemon or darkspawn, but against the invading Qunari army.

Briefly, Once-Sten wondered what kind of trouble the young – no, no longer young – the _impetuous_ Grey Warden would find himself in.

And the thought brought a slight smile to the normally stoic features of the former Blight Companion. Fortunately, none of his guard took note of their leader's preoccupation as they readied themselves to disembark and engage the lone human upon the docks of Denerim.

)0(

Sharp eyes watched as the large unhorned qunari warrior strode along the deck. Wood crackled beneath each sure stride as a large hand gripped the hilt of the huge greatsword held easily. He watched as the warrior who he had, at one time in his life, considered a friend glanced back over one broad shoulder, an obvious order to those warriors remaining aboard the skiff to remain. The Warden counted just over a dozen well-armed qunari soldiers, knowing full well that many more stood at the ready aboard the great vessel not too far from the docks. And he felt a thrill shiver down his spine as he tightened the grip upon the blazing blue blade he held in one hand, fingers twisting around the grip of his griffon emblazoned shield.

As the qunari leader strode toward him, the Commander glanced once at the blade in his hand, wondering how Darrian would feel about his using Starfang against one of their friends.

The thought did not sit well with him, and he straightened, shoulders taut beneath the heavy metal of his armor as the man he knew as Sten came to a halt mere feet from his current position.

"Hey there, Sten," Alistair greeted with forced cheer, his eyes hard as he searched the aged and rugged face of the kossath before him.

"Warden," the once-Sten responded with the slightest tilt of his large head.

"It's actually Commander, remember?" Alistair said with a cheeky tone to his voice.

Picking up on it, once-Sten tilted his head, bringing his swords, Asala, up to rest upon one naked shoulder. "And I am now Arishok."

A white-blond brow twitched the slightest rise of a corner of his mouth and Alistair drawled out, "Oh, don't tell me that you're seeking an answer for yourself now?"

The tone was mocking, teasing, but Arishok picked up on something else. An attempt to remind him of his origins in this place, this city, this very country. With a heavy sigh, he brought his sword from his shoulder, posture relaxing only the slightest as he stared at a man he had never really considered a friend, but had considered a true ally.

"So," Alistair replied, hands still gripping Starfang and his shield as he broke the strained silence, "is this where you and I meet in an epic battle to the death and your troops go back to Seheron?"

"You refer to the duel between the Champion and the Arishok in the Free Marches?"

"Heard of that, did you?" He shrugged, that white-blond brow twitched again. "Or, you know, you could remember the lessons you learned those twenty-odd years ago, and, well," He gestured toward the water with his sword hand, "_leave_."

The Arishok raised one white brow, lavender eyes fixed upon the younger man's lined face. A face, he realized, that had seen much, had aged much, in the mere twenty-three years since last he had met with the other.

With a heavy sigh, he remarked dryly, "I see the years have not added maturity to your words, Warden, despite the lines upon your face."

"Yeah, well, I get enough of the blood and doom, you know, actually fighting to keep people alive," there was the slightest sneer in the Warden's voice, a near reproach to the once-Sten, and he picked up on it clearly. And, amazingly, felt a bit of shame at the comment, at the implication.

The Wardens were here, fighting, yet again, to prevent deaths. Putting their lives in front of others.

Against him and his army.

And yes, he felt shamed.

He had argued against the invasion to his superiors within the triumvirate. The leaders of all aspects of the Qun had come together, proclaiming that Ferelden had remained untouched by stabilizing certainty of the Qun for far too long. They had called him to lead the invasion, as he, more than any other Qunari, had vast experience in the strange, barbaric land. He had argued – against all reason and common standard – against such a thing, reminding them that Fereldens had a long history of being conquered, only to throw out their conquerors in the most bloody and expensive manner possible.

The leaders had listened, patiently, as the Arishok set out his argument. Only to then remind him that none of the previous invaders had been of the Qun.

They would know victory.

And thus he had been sent.

To now stand before one he had once called an ally, and realized that not only did he face the armies and warriors of Ferelden, but the Grey Wardens as well.

And knowing this, he had to wonder if he would be justified in turning a retreat. As the Wardens were not a political aspect, but an Order respected even amongst those who followed the Qun.

"You still with me?" Alistair's voice broke through his thoughts, and the Arishok raised his head to scowl at the man.

With a cocky grin, Alistair continued, "Yup. Haven't changed much."

Slightly confused, uncertain if the Warden was referring to himself or the Qunari, the once- Sten's scowl deepened.

"I cannot simply turn and leave," the Arishok finally responded, taking note of the widening of Alistair's stance, how the blade – that painfully familiar blade – came slightly to the fore, at his words.

"So, we just keep fighting, kill each other, and still you Qunari will lose," there was a confidence in the Warden's voice the once-Sten did not recall ever having heard within that voice before. "Fereldens are the toughest people to walk Thedas," there was pride within the Warden's voice, and the Arishok was certain it was well deserved. "Come from barbarian stock not even the Tevinters could tame."

That smirk found its way back onto Alistair's face. "But, I seriously doubt you and your men can get off the docks to cause more trouble."

"You are one man," the Arishok stated calmly, chucking out his chin to indicate the lone Warden. "I have a dozen currently at my back."

A chuckle, light and airy, rippled from Alistair's mouth. "You think I'm alone?" A brow tilted as he smirked. "Really?" that brow rose in an almost mocking fashion, the smirk widened into an outright grin. "Maybe you should take another look."

With those words, without turning his eyes away from the Arishok, Alistair indicated behind him with a slight twist of his head. Lavender eyes followed the path, narrowing as they scanned the area behind the Commander of the Grey.

Slipping from a shadow was a small dwarven woman, dark hair framing a pert face, darker tattoos marking her pale flesh in a death-mask. Dressed in the blue and silver leathers that identified her as a Warden, she carried within those small hands twinned blades. She gave the qunari war leader a cocky grin to match the Commander's before slipping easily back into the shadows.

But, one rogue? _No_. Sten's eyes continued their path, falling upon the familiar form of a dark haired male with hawkish features, dressed similarly to the dwarven woman. Yet, instead of blades, he held a fine long bow, currently notched, the arrow pointed in his direction.

"You remember Nathaniel, correct?" Alistair's voice floated through his senses. "Better shot than even Leliana had been."

The Arishok opened his mouth to reply, but a throat clearing from above brought his gaze upwards to the roof of the nearest structure. A blonde elven woman, the dark tattoos upon her fine face identified her as Dalish. Dressed in wilderness leathers that barely concealed her slender figure, she held a bladed staff in one hand, the other raised before her. This was a mage, he was certain.

But, there were more. A dark haired male, a few years younger than Alistair and dressed similarly to the Commander, taller and broader than the Commander, stepped from the corner of the building the elven mage stood upon, a greatsword to rival his own held easily in large hands. This male moved with feral grace to stand behind his Commander, sharp blue eyes fixed upon the Qunari, and the Arishok was certain he saw anger and hatred within those depths.

Smirking, Alistair replied, "These are just those you can see," his eyes hardened and narrowed. "Those we are willing for you to see. There are others, some Wardens, others…" he shrugged as he thought of Zevran and the others hidden amongst the crates and warehouses along the docks. "around here…" he glanced around almost absently, "somewhere."

Nodding, the Arishok returned his attention fully back to the Warden. "So, _Sten_," there was that mockery again, so reminiscent of younger years that the Arishok did not correct his insolence this time. "what is it to be?" He stepped closer. "You and your men die here, followed by the rest of your army, or do you go back and remind your leaders that Fereldens never submit?"

The intensity of the man's voice shook the qunari and he found himself stepping back slightly. The confidence, the surety, the need to protect was so firmly ensconced upon the human's face that it reminded him of another…one of smaller stature and darker visage.

Ignoring the question and the battles resounding from the interior of the city, the once-Sten found himself asking instead, "You still think of him."

Blinking, confused briefly by the shift of conversation, Alistair frowned. "Of course I do," he stated firmly. "He was my best friend. No," Alistair shook his head, "he was _everything_. He taught me how to lead and to face my fears and even use my weaknesses as well as my strengths." Features darkening slightly, he stated, "My command of the Grey here in Ferelden is merely my taking over his command. I am still his Second."

Hand relaxing slightly around his blade, the qunari nodded his approval. "Good." Taking a step forward so that the two leaders stood closer, he continued. "I have a proposal. You and I battle here, to the death," he ignored the wince that crossed the human's face. "I win, the battle continues as before. You win," his face more stone than flesh as he spoke, "my army will turn and leave. Leaderless, they will have no choice but to do so."

A tremor flooded Alistair as he faced this man. He had fought beside him in more battles than he could count. He had been upon that damned rooftop when Darrian…his throat tightened at the thought. Behind him, he could hear Carver grunt out his disapproval, but for once, the younger man kept his silence even as he could feel those blue eyes bore into the back of his skull. Nathaniel would be pissed. No, he was pissed. Alistair could almost feel the anger rippling from his Second.

Zevran…well, he'd be more than pissed. So much so that, should he survive, the elven assassin would be certain to let his displeasure known. Alistair felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of the elf, but pushed it aside.

He knew well none of his other companions would approve this course and he wondered at what punishment he would face at Sigrun's hands once this was over.

If he won. If he survived.

Honey-gold eyes searched out the rugged features before him. He had once called this man an ally, a friend. Facing him as a foe seemed so _wrong_.

But nothing about the current situation could even remotely be considered _right_.

Decision made – because really, what other option did he have? - he took a step backwards and gave a curt nod of agreement. Carver began to object but Alistair ordered him back and, reluctantly, the younger warrior did just that.

Tightening his grips, he flexed his knees, waiting as the Arishok – he could no longer think of him as _Sten_ – watched him, calculating. Then, with a war cry that reverberated against the surrounding buildings, the qunari charged forward.

"For Ferelden!" Alistair shouted as he spun, shield raising to block and turn the onrushing blade as he brought Starfang around to cut at the qunari.

And those who had accompanied him could only watch the battle with growing impatience and dread as the two war leaders battled for the fate of Ferelden.

)0(

_This was meant to be the final chapter of this series, but I keep having ideas and thoughts regarding it. This may or may not be the 'end'. I apologize for the cliffhanger, but it just seemed appropriate for me to end it here._

_For now…_


	5. Long Way Home

_Despair to Determination_

_Chapter 5_

It had never ceased to amaze him, no matter how many battles he had lived through, no matter how many wars he had fought in. But, there was always one instance that stood out among all the others. One battle that took the greatest significant portion of his mind and heart, and reminded him, yet again, how very fortunate he had been during his lifetime.

He really wasn't certain when he had begun feeling 'fortunate'. It wasn't as though it was a conscious thought, or as if it had just hit him like a bolt of lightning. But now, as he stood, staring up at the stony face of his long-dead friend, he realized that he had been fortunate.

_Fortunate_. Despite the circumstances surrounding his birth; despite having grown up alone and unwanted. Despite having to give up his life to live in a near-constant state of war and battle.

Yes, he was fortunate.

During his life within the wardens, he had gained more than he had lost: Friends, family of a sort, a woman who loved him…He had much to be grateful for. There had only been one thing that had been taken away from him that had had any true value.

Again, honey-brown eyes gazed up into that face. That face he would always remember, to his dying day.

And now, selfishly, once again, he wished that his friend was beside him as he readied himself for yet another battle.

The last of his life.

He had recalled, during their battle against the Blight, how after Alistair had instructed Darrian about the Calling, the pair had blood-sworn to walk that final, dark path together.

Yet, here he was, preparing for his final journey to Orzammar, to make that walk alone.

He chuckled, broad shoulders shaking slightly, gray head bowing as he recalled when Carver had declared he would accompany his Commander to his Calling. He could still feel the heat of anger that radiated from the younger's eyes as Alistair denied him his request.

Carver was still years from his own Calling; and he did not think that the younger warden's wife and young child would be pleased to give up their loved one so soon.

Of course, Nathaniel had to offer next. And, once again, Alistair argued against it. The former nobleman was his Second, and it just seemed…right that the Howe would assume rulership over Amaranthine. The Commander had thought the elder man was angry when Alistair had agreed to the single combat challenge of the Arishok more than a decade before…

Alistair chuckled at the memory. He rubbed his cheek, still feeling the phantom memory of the punch the archer had delivered when he had declined his offer.

That chuckle stalled, however, at the memory of Sigrun – how pale her face had gotten beneath her stark tattoos, the downturn of her pert lips as he had to tell the one he loved that he had to leave, to join their fallen comrades. The dwarven woman had tried to convince him to remain longer upon the surface, that if she had not noticed any changes in him, he had time. But, Alistair knew, the longer he remained upon the surface, the more tainted he became, the less likely of his being able to journey to the ancient dwarven city under his own power, and fight the good battle far beneath the surface.

The dwarf hated his explanation; had shouted and threatened, finally resorting to tears to try and change his mind. He had pulled her into his arms, kissing her soundly upon frowning lips, and whispered his love, affection and genuine gratitude for her love throughout the years.

Releasing her had been the second most difficult thing he had ever had to do in his life.

Eyes wandered back up, into the face of the one who had been responsible for the most difficult thing he had ever had to do.

"Darrian," his voice croaked out, stalling as he choked down tears. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "Darrian, looks like we'll be reunited soon."

He grinned up at the statue, tipping two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute, and then turned to walk to where his horse awaited him.

By the city gates.

DA

_This officially ends this story._


End file.
